


Ich Will: Während und Nach/Die Kaputte Uhr

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Humour, M/M, Spoilers, black humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until somebody blows himself up in a bank. Oh, the humanity. Get the cameras rolling. [Ich Will video universe, Richard/Till, lots of language and violence. See more inside. Not related to 'Silence'.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. W ä hrend und Nach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit not claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> I wish I could properly put into words how tasteless this thing is. It contains violence, language, spoilers, darkness, metafiction, and a reference to My Immortal. How am I still breathing in this world? This fic is in two sections - Richard 'during' the video, Till 'after'. Both are insane.

**Ich Will: W** **ä** **hrend und Nach - A Rammstein Fanfiction**

\------------------------------

During \- Richard

Breathe. Pop a Valium and you'll be ready to go. Richard doesn't feel ready to go, though, so he pops another Valium and then about three more. There isn't any water around, which is really quite a pity. So he just crunches them between his teeth and although he should be feeling horribly sick, the sensation of sudden calm quashes that feeling. He feels kind of drifty, kind of mellow, pleasant butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Kind of like a heart attack, but in the stomach. It's a lot less romantic when you put it that way, but oh well. He grabs his Walther P99, bites down on a cigarette and marches inside the building.

It's sufficiently been messed up by Paul, Olli and Schneider as it is. He passes Flake, who is sitting on the marble counter with a completely passive expression on his face and a huge bomb strapped to his chest. He gives the man a little glance and Flake doesn't open his eyes, simply holding onto the bomb and the detonator and not moving a muscle as if he's always been there. Might as well be a statue. Richard walks ahead without any further acknowledgement; he takes out another cigarette and takes a long drag, hearing the slow, metallic 'clink-clink' of Till walking slowly behind him, from the weight of his leg brace and his skull-topped cane. The thought is kind of alluring, but at the same time, it means that he's falling behind, he's got to go faster - Richard, at this thought, lets out a weak moan of both pleasure and agony.

"Ohh," he groans. "ohh. _Ohhh. Gott. Hilf mir_."

The smell of blood is coming from the floor. Richard makes his way to the counter, seeing that all the glass has been smashed in - the only bloodied person he can see is a male bank teller, bleeding from his head but otherwise alive. Schneider probably gave him one hell of a wallop. He's not sure why he's so sure of Schneider being the culprit but that's not important and he doesn't really give a fuck. None of them do. Could probably fill a whole building with all the fucks that they don't give. And then blow it up. Which in a way is kind of what they're trying to do, anyway. When he peers underneath the counters, he smiles to see that he's a little more successful - there's a young female teller who's cowering and trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible (looks around twenty-five), along with a male teller who is a little ways from her. Can't be older than twenty-one. Perhaps freshly out of university? Not even that, actually. The female is shaking as she blindly reaches for the alarm button - well, Richard won't have that.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, _liebes Fr_ _ä_ _ulein_."

He's just trying to be a gentleman and he doesn't think that he did anything wrong, but the girl gasps and scoots away from him the moment he opens his mouth. At the same time, the university kid stands up. Ahh. Hormonal crushes. Definitely still in university. "You - you leave her alone! Or I'll-"

"Watch yourself," Richard used to wrestle and get in a fair number of fights. This is what he's thinking as he lands a solid punch on the kid's face and knocks him down calmly. "I'm trying to be polite and I won't have people rejecting my hospitality, no sir."

He turns back to the female teller, bends down and gently presses the big red button for her, the added pressure of his leather-gloved hand on hers making her flinch and stare. He'd like to think that it was because she was attracted to him, but knows that this isn't the case. Ah well. A man can dream. He snatches up her arms and gives her the most suave smile that he can muster. "Say," he says, ignoring her frightened expression and the university kid teller trying to stand up straight and going straight for her charming little heart. "you ever seen us before? On television maybe?"

"Angela, don't-"

"Shut the hell up, kid!" Richard roars and goes for the other's heart the fastest way he can think of - a bullet right through the sternum. He goes down, coughing up blood and gagging and writhing around on the floor. "the adults are talking!"

"Why are you doing this?" she shrieks finally, making Richard wince, which just makes his grip on her tighten. It's more out of the fact that he wants her to stop shrieking rather than any other vile intentions, but she doesn't see it that way. "why? _Why are you doing this_?"

Before he can either answer her or shoot her too to shut her up, Till walks past and Schneider, along with Paul, emerges from a side room to follow him. Till's the boss. The singer glances at Richard before stopping dead on his tracks for a few seconds, staring silently into the other's eyes. Richard stares back at him and the lady in his arms follows the direction of his gaze, turning her face towards Till, her chocolate-brown eyes wide and childishly afraid and tears running down her face. He's looking around at the carnage and the teller and the dead body on the floor and he knows that the guitarist did it all and for a little moment he sees a little frown of disapproval cross Till's face before the latter takes up his cane and walks away. Paul skips along but not before giving Richard a surprisingly dirty look, and the younger guitarist suddenly has a pounding headache, letting another soft, weak moan escape his mouth.

He needs another cigarette.

Schneider gives him a look as well, which is - actually, well, it's just that. A look. They stare into each other's eyes for a second, one blue eye to another blue eye, one blue eye to one white milky nothing. Then the man gives him what might be a smirk and hoists up his gun and follows Till towards the back of the building. His stare is always so cold and calculating, mesmerizing in its own way; it always looks like he's thinking about life and everything behind it, contemplating the unknown. That, or maybe it's just the lack of depth perception. He turns back to the teller.

"Television's a dangerous thing," Richard says nonchalantly at the girl in his arms, who is staring into his face in blank horror. He's not sure why she's so terrified, he's not that hideous or anything. He's just trying to keep her calm because female hysteria isn't a good thing. Sure, the bank's getting robbed and people are getting shot from side to side and floor kind of looks like a bloody piece of modern art but that's not important. He doesn't know what's important, actually. Richard is confused and he doesn't like being confused so he might as well carry on. "things were pretty much done for us when we first got on television, you know? I didn't want to go through with this at first, thought Paul was finally reaching into his hidden dark side, the one we really know that he's got. He's not even hiding it. He's the one who first charged in, in case you didn't notice. Flake's gonna get killed because of us but I can see the logic behind all of this anyway, which tells you how much of a serious business this is. All down to economics, really! You ever done economics?" the lady shakes her head, terrified. "bullshit. You're a bank teller. You've all done economics. So we're now all hotshots, not getting a single bit of privacy because the cameras are always on us. It gets to a man, you know. And to women. Kind of like erectile dysfunction, except I'm still young and sexy and you're a woman so we clearly don't have that, you sicko. We'll fuck up bad one day, maybe Till will end up hitting a woman or Olli gets arrested for drug possession or something and the cameras will capture every second of it for good because the cameras are always there. And because the cameras are always there, and because we'll fuck up one day, we might as well go out with a bang and with all our middle fingers raised, you know? Kind of fucking up in the most fucked up way therefore not actually fucking up. Shaped like itself really."

"What the hell are you talking about?" the female teller cries even though she's nearly faint with hysteria in his arms.

"What am I talking about? _What am I talking about?_ " Richard shouts, suddenly feeling a mixture of fury and utter irritation towards the whole thing and wishing that she'd have just passed out like a good girl already because she's wrinkling his suit. That suit's from Hugo Boss for god's sake. The jacket and trousers are lightly pinstriped, made of 97% virgin wool and 3% elasticine; none of that pesky percentage stuff with the shirt and tie, they're pure cotton and pure silk respectively, so it's not like, he's totally _unjustified_ for feeling this way or anything. "the media is what I'm talking about! What _all of us_ are talking about! All they want is a good story regardless of the kind of shit they have to wade through to get it! If they want such a good story, then they can have one right fucking here! You can see it happening, you're even a part of it! Weren't you listening to a damn thing that I was saying?"

No response. She just keeps crying. Sob, sob, sob. Very typical of the entire female ego. Richard sighs, his fury fading away.

"Of course not," he says smoothly, twirls her about a bit, and then drops her like she's hot, yo.

Where mah sexy German dawgs at? Bark at me, like, if you're mah dawg.

He's not sure if this is relevant in any way in 2001, though. Shrug.

Pick up the pistol and move on.

\-----

After- Till  


Don't touch _anything_ that's not cooled down yet, is the magic rule for pyrotechnicians. Do not pour flammable chemicals directly into whichever object you will be using to hold your pyrotechnics; use inert plastic to transfer everything. Always be prepared to quit your show if the risks are too high. Always keep two or more fire extinguishers, preferably at least one of pure water, nearby. None of which the police and the media currently possess (in the care of the fire extinguishers), or are following. They came to stop a bank robbery, not put out a building on fire, so they aren't prepared with anything. Till doesn't really understand that sort of mentality; if they're prepared to pull out bodies, see more people being downed in front of them, and maybe even maim and kill some people themselves, they should be prepared to put out a fire as well. But then it's been quite a while since he understood anything about crowds and authorities and crowd mentality. In about ten seconds the bomb's going to go off and that's not a long time to wait so he just waits patiently and politely like a gentleman ought to. It'll be worth it, even though right now he's being cuffed and being forced to eat pavement and pavement tastes bad.

"You sons of bitches are going to get it now," a policeman is shouting. He's barely a man at that, looks like he's not even twenty-five yet. Probably a rookie who's overexcited to have the honour of participating in the arrest and imprisonment of who he probably thinks are a bunch of gangster Nazis. They're a _tanz-metall_ band, but to some people, they're the same thing. Till is thinking this all the while he's dragged towards where all the others were already chained in a little circle of sorts, being unceremoniously dumped next to Richard and being bound as well. "now don't you-"

Boom. The world goes bright. People scream, glass and plaster and pieces of wood go flying, and the rookie policeman screams like a little girl and drops to the ground, curling up and whimpering. Everyone except for the five enter a state of complete and utter panic, with some reporters making a run for their handbags and dragging their cameramen by the wrists and desperately trying to get to their cars. The ones who get to their cars and drive away will later cause a traffic jam that ends with somebody running over a deer and causing a domino car crash, but that's not what matters. All the five members saw it coming, so when the light hit they knew instinctively to close their eyes tightly and wait the explosion out, shifting a little closer to better guard themselves. Eventually the noises fade somewhat, but the screams get louder if anything, and it's a pity.

"... _siebundf_ _ü_ _nfzig_ ," Till counts softly under his breath. It takes ages to say them because German numbers take ridiculously long to pronounce but what the hell. " _achtundf_ _ü_ _nfzig, neunundf_ _ü_ _nfzig_."

" _Null_."

He opens his eyes. The smoke is still thick around the building but he can see that flames are licking within the place. All the glass has been blown away and the few suckers who were unfortunate enough to be standing in front of it are now lying horizontally, moaning and bloodied and impaled with tiny shards. A doorway crumbles. No survivors within the building, probably. _Fantastich_.

"Ha," Paul is the first to give a reaction, and it's not unlike what he's been doing for the entire couple of hours that they've held the bank hostage. "hahaha! Oh my God! We _actually_ blew up the bastard! Oh man, that's just gold! Hahahahaha!"

He's laughing kind of like a hyena and it would be annoying and Till would reach over to give him a slap around the face, but he knows that within the completely uncaring and utterly blissful exterior, Paul is actually a deadly serious person. And his irritating laughter is exactly that: he's doing it to irritate people. The police around them, specifically. And because Till knows - and while the guitarist is laughing his head off, none of that laughter reaches the deep-seated fire and loathing and triumph in his eyes - he _doesn't_ give the bastard a slap around the face. What he's doing is working anyway! It's actually kind of funny really, how they're all staring at them with fascinated horror and revulsion and Paul's throwing it directly back in their faces, so the singer gives in and starts laughing as well. Everyone else in the band takes this as a cue to do the same, because, you know, Till's the boss and all. "Can you just imagine the chaos," Olli shouts while doubling over in mirth. "there isn't another proper bank around for several minutes. The money's all gone up in smoke and nobody understands a damn thing about the situation. How do you explain this shit? Not even I know how to even begin describing it and I'm part of the group that set off the assault in the first place because I adore you lot so much. Is this what they mean when they talk about honor before reason?"

"Situation sch _mit_ uation," Paul giggles, trying to raise his handcuffed hands to wipe at his eyes. He fails, but it doesn't hinder him. It's funny because they never wanted the money in the first place, they just wanted to be heard and understood. Now they're the king of the world and everyone else can kiss their ass. "I need to pay university tuition fees. There's a major sale streak going on in _Europacente_ r. A new casino's opened and I want to gamble my life away, for god's sake. _Don't you know how important that is_?"

"You bastards," a purple-faced man is shouting, eyes wide with anger and horror. His grip tightens on his truncheon. Haha, truncheon. "what have you done, how can you even-"

"- You might as well stay away from us too," Schneider gasps out, tears running down both his cheeks from laughing too hard. Considering the fact that he technically only has one eye, this is quite an achievement. "who knows what else we've got strapped on our bodies? Not you for sure. I mean, I might have a jackknife or ten. that brace for Till's clubbed foot might actually be just a facade to conceal a real club. Paul might be hiding more bombs in his _stomach_ for all I know, Risch might have poisoned everyone in that building with his cigarettes even before the bomb went off - seriously, he smoked like three packs while we were in there, you have no idea - and Olli... actually no. I guess Olli's carrying around, uh, target practice, what with that bullseye on his chest? So yeah. We're all cool."

That doesn't make sense. It probably wasn't intended to in the first place. But it was a threat, and it's true that they don't know what they're carrying on their bodies (except for Olli, the streaker that he is). And after what's just happened, this only incites the policemen and the various reporters surrounding them to gasp and step back, watching them warily but too afraid to actually go up and search them or call their bluff, freeing up breathing room. Much appreciated. The singer looks over sideways at Richard, who is using this opportunity to take out a cigarette from a still-intact pack in his pocket. He's struggling a little, because they're all chained together - Till can't move around much because his handcuffs are a little tighter than everyone else's, but neither can Richard because he's got the weight of both Olli and Till pressing against him. But he eventually gets one in his mouth; Till peers in a little closer and sees that Richard still has about three cigarettes left. Worth a try.

"Give me one," he demands. The guitarist gives him a long look - Till's not that surprised really, he's very protective of his cigarettes, and the singer's making him do extra work, since when did the diva of the group have to do any more work than necessary - but when the younger man rolls his eyes a little and starts fumbling again, the sight makes him a bit happier than he'd care to admit. But when you're all chained together watching a bank burn to the ground, anything feels like bonding. He likes it.

"Can' hold i' up," Richard mumbles through the cigarette in his mouth, though, which ruins the mood a little.

The singer sighs, although an idea is forming in his head. He gazes around the scene, noting that people are watching his every move with nervous eyes and rolling cameras, and inwardly nods to himself in approval. "Well then, if Herr Kruspe wants to _play hard to get_ ," he growls, and without waiting for a reply, he leans over (ignoring the flash of pain in his leg) and attacks Richard's mouth viciously with his own lips. He coaxes the guitarist's lips open ever so slightly, feeling the soft warmth and shivering at the touch, before he turns his attention to the object clenched between them. A light brushing of Till's tongue on his lower lip makes Richard whimper and this loosens the cigarette - swapping smokes instead of saliva. Charming. Don't see young couples doing that nowadays. What's the world coming to? The cancer stick falls onto Till's lap and technically he's got what he wanted, but Richard is reciprocating and it's one tiny spark of warmth on a shit day like this.

Put on a show. Might as well, why the hell not. Flashes and stunned gasps and whispers rise around them, along with the other three wolf-whistling in unison. Just what Till wants. Slip him a little tongue, too. Richard responds accordingly - his eyes actually slide shut and he moans ever so softly into the other's mouth, reaching to try to touch more of Till's tongue with his own. "Mmmph," he whimpers as the singer raises his hands and trails a finger down his tie. "ahh, Lindemann-"

"Yes," Till groans against the other's lips. "you like that, don't you," reach out and place both hands on Richard's chest. Slip underneath the jacket a little. "you beautiful smoldering son of a bitch. Ohh yeah. _Ohh_. I'd _totally_ give you a healthy dose of _b_ _ü_ _ck dich_ right here."

"Go get a room," Schneider chuckles. "you can't fuck in the fucking outdoors surrounded by all those fucking people. Actually, how would you even fuck if we're all chained together like this?"

"Unless you'd like us to all join?" the bassist offers, raising an eyebrow. Till would tear his mouth away from Richard's just to shoot back a reply before going back to what they were doing, but he doesn't get a chance to do so because without any warning whatsoever the guitarist sinks his teeth onto his lips and actually manages to draw blood.

" _Schei_ _ß_ _e_!" he hisses before pulling back, staring incredulously at Richard. Flash. Camera shutters. All wanting to capture Till Lindemann being bested for once. He can't let too much on, so he simply takes a deep breath before forcing a smile. "I mean, _touch_ _é_. Didn't think you liked it rough?"

"I know _you_ do," Richard smirks, running his tongue very lightly over his lips; his smirk widens to a near psychotic grin. "no need to go any further like this at the moment, God forbid we come out of this looking like porn stars instead of a metal band. Next they'll be wanting to see me and you screwing each other senselessly in a bus while Olli and Paul just disappear into thin air and Doom's mentioned only as a plot point. We've got enough time for the tomfoolery that you want soon. You know what they do to guys like us in prison?"

Till snorts in amusement, and Paul lets out a half-anticipating 'ooh' before giving Schneider a nudge and a wink. He'll get his own back later. Grinning, Till laps up the blood on his lip with his tongue, tasting a hint of rusty tang and Richard's smoke. It's not much of a special taste, but it's better than pavement. (Seriously, pavement is the worst tasting thing in the world.) The younger man quietly lights his own cigarette's and Till's; after that, there is silence amongst the five for a while as they watch the building burn. A lot of the noise and smoke has died down now, bringing forth only a sort of calm; they're still fighting the flames and now firemen are rushing inside, seeking for any possible survivors despite knowing that nobody could have possibly survived that. Till's trained pyrotechnician eyes can see that they don't have enough water to cool things down sufficiently enough - rather than the lack of water, what's really the problem is that they could probably do with another fire truck to help out. Another should be arriving soon, though. He inhales the smoke and exhales it.

"We've got to call up the kids," Richard is the first to speak up. Despite the fact that now he's actively puffing at the cigarette, his words come out clear compared to how muffled he sounded when he had an unlit one in his mouth. Perhaps he was faking that one just to get a kiss. Not like Till minds that, or anything. "tell them that we might be a while."

Paul looks over at this, the expression on his face suddenly serious and composed. "Yeah. Yeah, we should."

"Tell them papa's not coming home for a while. That we love them."

"How long's 'a while', do you think?" Olli poses the question, and even though his voice is light and he's smiling, his brown eyes suddenly seem a little misty. "I don't even think that they know how long that is anymore. We're away six months of the year with each other anyway. Sometimes far more than that. How do we even measure that timescale - seven legs' worth of concerts, maybe? Except without the concerts?"

Till doesn't have children. Not in this music video. Not the realm of general fanworks. But he forgets that sometimes.

The singer lets out a sad little laugh. "I only wish. We're lucky if we get a sentence that means that they're starting to date and don't remember our faces when we come back."

And then they're laughing again, but it's not a happy or even a remotely lighthearted laugh this time. Till thinks of his perhaps-existent-in-another-world daughter and Richard thinks of _his_ equally perhaps-existent-in-another-world daughter and they all think of their children, playing and happy and always so ecstatic to greet them when they come home. Wanting to get hugged by them, carried on their shoulders, wanting to tell them all about their day. Always holding onto their legs and being sad when they're off again. They have no idea why they're so sad about this, but they are. Till thinks of Flake and back at the burning building, people crying in front of it, and thinks about how Flake will never assume a family life, no matter how many years and decades will pass. "I'm a shit father," Paul whispers, and Till couldn't agree more. None of this has meant a single thing. Adrenaline fades, euphoria goes with it, now there is just a crushing emptiness. To ease his melancholy he takes a long drag on his nearly-finished cigarette and is just remembering how Nele gently scolded him to stop smoking when he sees Richard looking at him longingly.

"Can we share it?" Richard asks plaintively. Till blows smoke in his face in response and the hopelessly addicted fucker just stews in the secondhand smog like it's better than air. Then he glances around the scene one more time - Schneider's looking weary but still has that little smile on his lips, Olli is much the same, and Paul is leaning against all of them, his face softened with sorrow and utter fondness. He and Richard are sitting together, sharing in their cursed togetherness, feeling tired and only a vague sense of hollow sadness flickering in their hearts, still content that they're all in this together and always will be. Not good nor bad. Could be better though.

Looks like Flake got the last laugh after all. He spits out the filter of the cigarette and clears his throat.

"Put in a good word for us," Till shouts out, looking up at heaven and imagining that somewhere behind the clouds, Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Fanfic is playing Ode to Joy with the angels. "you're as good as anybody up in heaven, Christian Lorenz, even though you're East German and you're a gimp. But don't bother looking for my father and saying hello, either. Just trying to save you a bit of trouble, which is the least I can do, considering that being dead is enough trouble as it is," pause. Smile for the camera. Smile for the audience. Smile real wide, because no one cares what you feel. "seriously, though. Don't bother. He probably isn't even there. That bastard was crazy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!! : D
> 
> I don't like the commercialization of V-Day. Screw convention. So I wrote a fic without chocolates, flowers, cards etc and without even the mention of Valentine's Day for Valentine's Day, instead focusing on the cryptic, inspirational and utterly beautifully shot video for 'Ich Will', because that makes total sense. The thought, I mean, not the video. I'm confusing myself. I wanted to read into the mockery of audience participation and extending into the video, the perception of the media. How anything is just news and nothing more, no matter how tragic, terrible, cruel the incidents in question - or even the methods used to extract accounts, depressingly - are. Thrown in there are my general misanthropic accounts of people and Till/Richard because hey, this is a Valentine's Day fic! This is some 4000 words (Richard's section comes from a really stupid little section I wrote up in 10 mins) and it was done entirely during today.
> 
> I didn't write this just to provoke people, but if you thought it was horrible, please feel free to tear me a new asshole. If you liked it, please review! That will be all.


	2. Die Kaputte Uhr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the cameras churning out news and six unhappy Germans, the passage of time is a tragic business. Ich Will video-verse, sequel to ‘Ich Will: Während und Nach’. Also with at least 200% more tastelessness. This should be illegal.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Till/Richard hints, spoilers, gun use, very dark themes, character death, language, blasphemy, metafiction, lack of formatting in some places, even more tasteless than the other one and a horrible condescending tone.

**Ich Will: Die Kaputte Uhr** **–** **A Rammstein Fanfiction**

\------------------------

** Meanwhile - Olli **

Olli's story breaks off into its own separate path after the initial storming of the bank. As a result, his story doesn't intertwine with those of others and thus might either be the most or least interesting. Either way, it's important that we tell it, and we shall tell it first.

It is also important that he's suicidal. He didn't decide that for himself, some God up there tightening the strings of an Oliver-marionette did. But that's what he gets for being a marionette because marionettes are jackasses. Satisfied enough that he's aided the others to break in beyond the counter, he checks the window. The police are already gathering outside, along with a few journalists. Richard must have entered the building by now, and Till is probably in the foyer. All according to plan. This is where he has to leave, so we watch him as he quietly places his gun down in the arms of a confused and horrified middle-aged teller and back down the stairs. And then back up the stairs, but a different one. Haha. That's funny because it's different. Cue the canned laughter.

The camera pans out to show the overall scene outside the bank as he does this. Inside the building, Richard's gotten his first bodycount and has gained a look of collective disgust from his bandmates and it was very well deserved and all, but that is irrelevant to Olli's story. Unknown to the police, and camouflaged a little in his black suit against the black roof of the building, he slowly climbs the iron fire escape protruding from the side and right onto the roof. Due to the merciful nature of God in this story, he doesn't slip or fall in the slightest even as he makes his way across. Besides, if he fell off or slipped right now, that'd be quite ungainly. Wouldn't make a very good story for the papers tomorrow. No, Olli has something that _he wants to show people_ , and show it to the world he will, risks be damned. And no, it's not anything down there. Get your mind out of the gutter. He kicks a random drink can that's been stuck on the eaves on the roof, bleached by sunlight, and as it rolls off the building laughter comes out of it.

He is keeping a vow of silence along with his bandmate. Said bandmate is currently sitting pretty in the foyer of the bank with a bomb and detonator strapped to his chest, eyes closed in apparent peace. Olli doesn't let it show to anyone now and never will, but he doesn't approve of the way Flake is sacrificing himself; everyone else acts too nonchalant, too macho to even really recognize what's going on. This doesn't mean that he thinks that Paul, Richard, Till and Schneider are shallow and self-absorbed, oh no - it's just that he thinks that they're not going to accept this until it's too late. That, and combining the frankly very dangerous and careless thing that he's doing along with the fact that Olli is suicidal, we can deduce that he kind of wants to join Flake. He'll miss his fellow keyboardist a lot if he goes without him, that's all. But unlike Flake he's not actually fated to die - he's just fated to be a decoy and a decoy he will play.

We watch as Olli stands up on the roof, swaying a little but perfectly balanced, now situated in perfect view of the armed police and the reporters down below. There is a collective gasp as he throws off his suit jacket and stands there in his shirt and loosened tie. Olli is a very tall man, which really does help his case a lot. Like a degenerate, he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, his brown eyes focused determinedly on the crowd. He's got something to show us all. Closeup. He's giving us an impromptu strip show. We need every moment of it on camera. After what seems like an eternity, he finally gets his shirt entirely unbuttoned - and then throws it open, exposing his bare chest that has a black bullseye drawn on it with a black marker. Flake drew it earlier that morning with permanent marker, tracing around things like plates and whatever round things they could find for the lack of a compass. Olli also shed a few tears during it because it would be the last time Flake had proper human contact with anybody, but we aren't supposed to know that. That'd be too human.

Ooooooooh. Damn he's ripped. Wait, we didn't mean to say that, didn't know the mic was live. Uh. Out comes the laugh track again. That was totally just a joke. Really.

Olli has a few choices to make now. He can stand and let himself be shot. All guns are trained upon him now, distracted from what's going on within the building to focus on him; make a threatening movement and he'll be torn to shreds. Or he can just walk off the edge as simple as anything. Either way he'll die. But the sooner he does so, the more pointless his purpose as a distraction becomes - he's not catching the police's attention just for kicks. Nevertheless it's an interesting thing to contemplate. If shot down by police, they'll search him to find that he was not armed in any way - could just have been someone who was slightly crazy and needed to be helped - and the media will lambast the police for killing someone so senselessly. If he walks off himself, the media will focus on how suicidal he must have been, how terribly sorry they are for such a tragic loss, while conveniently forgetting that his bandmates have robbed, destroyed and have killed numerous people. Dead people are sacred subjects. Whatever the consequence, _he_ certainly won't have to live with it for sure, he can bugger off to whatever afterlife there might be with Flake.

"All right," he says to no one in particular. There goes the silence. "what's it going to be, guys?"

His answer comes in a series of camera flashes, which, combined with sunlight, nearly blinds him and causes him to lose his balance. He doesn't, and still manages to hold on, but hears the stunned gasps of the reporters and bystanders beneath him. Somewhere in the crowd a policeman is shouting at them to hold back on the flashes, goddamnit, there's a man's life on the line. Nice of them to care, but it's embarrassing as hell. I mean, just look. Did he just get caught actually showing _self-awareness_ and an _unwillingness_ to die? Blasphemy.

Well shit. That was just uncalled for. How can this be fixed?

Olli doesn't know. So he just keeps holding open his shirt, baring his chest and the bullseye drawn on it, staring into the sky. Keep that image in mind, we'll just play the laugh track one more time.

\-----

** Flake **

Huh?

\-----

** Before - Paul **

In retrospect, this was kind of all Paul's fault from the beginning. It was him who pointed out the unduly attention they were all getting from the media after the release of their third album. All sorts of names being called: fascists, Nazis, skinheads, white supremacists, filthy racist thugs. Nothing but the lowest common denominator. Some could laugh that off, but Paul's been feeling for quite a while now that it's all getting rather old, the name-calling and general lack of appreciation.

That's just how media in general works, Richard says. Richard is the one who later proves to be the most difficult to persuade when Paul comes up with the bank robbery idea, because he's surprisingly passive and accepting when it comes to controversy. Only Till's own full approval and alleged difficulties in Richard's marriage being publicized makes him do a one-eighty on his opinion, and even then the bastard proves to be anxious and jumpy through the most of the actual event. But then he's also the first to get a bodycount out of everyone else - not even a very pissed off, machine-gun-toting Schneider gets in a kill before Richard does. He'll never figure his fellow guitarist out. But back to the backstory we go before things get too introspective. Television, radio, the news, they will forever be living off stuff like this. It's just how they operate, he says.

Fuck the media, Paul shouts. Yeah, that's right. You heard what I said, Risch. Paulchen says fuck the media. They'll bleed us dry one day with all their accusations, all the probing into our personal lives, and we'll be left as nothing but empty husks. I won't have that _. I want a last stand_. If they want such a sensational story they can have one - for a price. I bet I can make them scream, Paul comments nonchalantly. I'll make them scream all day.

How exactly are you going to do that, Richard sniggers. Take out another cancer stick. Paul isn't fazed and takes out one of his own, lighting it elegantly. Why exactly would they be screaming? Because they'd be terrified at the fascinatingly insane and comically short son of a bitch?

That, too, he tells Richard. And somewhere along the line they'll be screaming out of four things when they see me: fright - he counts them off with his fingers for emphasis - happiness, anger and lust. You probably wouldn't expect any of this from someone like me, but I bet you I can tick all the four boxes, yessir.

Fright and anger are fair enough, but the other two? I doubt it. What are you planning on doing anyway?

Two hundred Euros. And you'd be surprised, Risch. Very surprised.

Heh. Deal.

Paul might seem like a man who's perpetually cheerful and jovial, forever wearing his million-dollar smile. The true charmer of the group. This is by no means a false statement, but he's actually a fairly serious person inside, sane enough to calculate and accept just how much damage and casualties they can expect this so-called heist to produce at the end of it all and cold enough to not care. He'll do everything he can to make it spectacular - they're not in it for the money, they just want an outlet for their unspoken wants and needs, manifesting as rage and destruction. Till is the one who will lead the operation and make their motives clear to the world, with him being the face of the band and ll, but Paul is the one who will physically lead them into the building and clear the path that they need.

The morning of the robbery starts off beautifully when Paul shoves the glass doors open and rushes inside the building with a gun, and people start dropping their things and screaming in their utter terror and confusion. He's also lucky enough to first turn his gun towards a couple who's carrying a little girl in their arms, who then immediately crouch down to shield their child, screaming what he thinks are obscenities at him as fury overcomes their fear. Two boxes ticked already. He's so impressed and kind of touched by this scene that he just walks past them and slides right onto the counter, distracting Schneider (following right behind him) from taking anyone's life for now. Of course, all of this is done while he's deaf and laughing his head off.

Well, actually, he can hear fine. But he's got earplugs in so everything either sounds muffled or inaudible - this is done so that he, as the one leading them inside, does not get distracted from their objective. He's got to rely on lip-reading most of the time. It's no different to how Schneider can see but doesn't see _as well as the others_ because of his eye, and how Flake and Olli can speak but just chooses not to for the sake of simplicity. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. He's doing a splendid job of leading, either way, causing havoc and chaos as he makes his way beyond the counters, towards the large safe, then to the corridor beyond that that leads to the conference rooms and employee desks. All that in less than half an hour.

I thought you were really taking it too far with that girl, he vaguely hears Till complaining from behind him. At least he thinks so, he could just be making it all up, it's not that hard. It was like, we're busy enough trying to rob a bank. What were you doing holding onto her? Killing someone to do that, nonetheless, I thought I was going to have to hit you on the head for not being able to keep it in your pants.

Hey, the body's to be had sex with, Richard shoots back. Not, uh, not to be had sex with. I wasn't even planning on that anyway. Too hysterical for my liking.

Paul wants to turn back right there and tell Richard exactly how stupid he sounds when he says something like that, but then is reminded of the fact that he is himself dragging along a hostage. A lady, slightly younger than his age with black hair, weeping hysterically as he pulls her along. Taking hostages doesn't prove anything and he doesn't intend to keep them around. They're just immensely convenient for gaining access to certain parts of the bank. Kind of like a human master key, fitting neatly into that lock that people call empathy.

You know, this would be easier on you if you either shut up or screamed out loud, real loud. It's for a bet, you see, Paul tells her cheerfully.

Oh God, she whimpers out loud, trying desperately to escape his grip. Oh God. Oh God. It's still not a scream, though. Paul is vaguely disappointed until he sees something at the end of the corridor that makes him smile again.

Look over there, sunshine.

She obeys him and when she sees the same thing that he does, she lets out a shriek of delight. Save me! Oh God, please save me!

 _Halt,_ the guard at the end of the corridor shouts, jumping up from his chair and fumbling at the gun holstered at his side. At least it looks like he's shouting, but he could just be mouthing the words like a ventriloquist's dummy for all Paul can see. _Halt!_ The guitarist simply lets out a wild laugh and shoves her roughly aside, knowing that her way back out is blocked by two of his bandmates and that there is nowhere for her to go when he's walking towards the armed guard as calmly as anything. The guard looks at him, really looks at him - his gaze focuses on the other's maniacal yet dissonantly serene grin, moving to the side of his face and to the glint of his silver earring. He looks into Paul's eyes, into the intensely blue gaze, and his own eyes widen as he peers into the other's mind and suddenly sees the scene unfolding before him, one of the guitarist's little hotel room with a little sink on it. A single pack of Valium lies within it, all compartments popped open; seven of them gone, three melting into sludge in the basin. Paul grins wide, inhumanly wide, and then the man loses it and starts clutching at his head and screaming in agony.

You see, Paul giggles at the cowering guard. I told you. I could make 'em scream.

Bastard's practically pissing himself, too. Either that or he's actually getting a boner at how terrifyingly sensual Paul is. Well, it's the latter, but it's probably more a fear response - blood rushing to where it shouldn't be rushing. Whatever. Four boxes ticked, two hundred Euros please. Of course it doesn't mean a damn thing because they're in a bank where money is like water, just as he thought all along. All the guitarist cares about is that he's shown people more than what the media portrays him as, and regardless of what might happen to him afterwards they will _never forget the truth_. As Richard and Till come hurrying to see what the fuss is all about, Paul kicks the guard to the floor and calmly takes out his earplugs, sounds flooding his ears for the first time that morning. This time there are quote marks because it is the only thing said that day that he knows is truly real.

"Hurray for vociferations! This is the happiest day of my life."

\-----

** Christian **

Who?

\-----

** In Medias Res - Schneider **

"-eady, Landers, do we really need to listen to you laughing like a bitch even as we walk towards our destruction."

That's not how it begins. Let's rewind. You're blind in one eye, you're just around the corner from a building and you're holding a gun. Oh hey, look, you think. A rock. You try to pick it up, but due to your grievous lack of depth perception, you just end up swiping at the air just above it like an idiot. This pisses you off so you swear and kick away the rock just to prove the point that you don't take shit from anything or anyone, let alone a rock. Your feeling of smug pride lasts exactly 0.214 seconds as Till taps the back of your shoulder and politely inquires as to 'what the fuck [you're] doing'. That number was just pulled out of your ass, but that's not the point. This is still too far towards the beginning for comfort. Let's fast forward a bit to the middle. You are now in the depths of the bank, having plundered and shot your way through everything with Paul on the lead and Richard and Till having followed you until the last ten minutes or so. You were the first in this little room, though. Paul, Richard and Till were in the big conference room with the cameras set up so the latter could make his broadcast to the world. Paul has just entered the scene, and the curtains open to you pinning the little bastard down and holding a gun to his throat while a few blindfolded and tied-up people cry helplessly in the background.

"This is all your fucking fault," you snarl at Paul. "you named me. You. You stupid fucker, you. Why in the world did you ever suggest _Doom_ as a nickname."

"Why in the world did you actually take me seriously," the short guy responds blankly, and after a moment of thought you have to concede that he has a point. Pulling the gun off his neck, you sigh and hold out a hand towards him, offering a truce and helping him up. Paul is the epitome of easily forgiven and he knows it. You're just smoldering with rage, that's all. You've been pissed off all morning. This has quite a lot to do with the fact that Richard's stolen your Valium. He stole all the Valium, all twenty tablets of it. Twenty tablets. That's as many as two tens. Unforgivable. He couldn't even have all of it anyway, what does he need twenty for? Unbeknownst to you, Richard's actually not the only one who's rummaged in your stash, but either way, they're gone and that's all it matters. Your thoughts are interrupted by the fact that you can hear Till approaching. Till's leg brace and cane are making highly audible clinking sounds so you know that he isn't far behind.

You are so fucking angry you don't even.

Richard and Till enter the room and it takes all your military discipline to not completely flip out and start on them too. The latter stops in the middle of the room and pauses for a while, wincing as he rubs his bad leg. "How long do we have left?"

"About fifteen minutes or so."

"Before the bomb goes off or before we need to leave?"

Paul checks his watch. "Before the bomb goes off. So we should leave in about, ten minutes or so. Even then I wouldn't push it-" he pauses there to gesture at the hostages. "so. What do we do with them?"

This is when you interrupt. "You know what's needed in a hostage?" you ask the entire room cheerfully, fiddling with the trigger of your gun with a thumb and forefinger. Nobody answers, but then you didn't expect them to. "only one thing, really. You need them to qualify as-" casually point a gun at a woman's head. "-as alive. That's all you need."

Richard pulls a face and interrupts. "Now wait just _one_ moment, Doom-"

"Don't interrupt me. You're not one to talk. And despite what you might think... I'm not getting at that. The point is, we didn't need hostages in the first place, did we? Considering we never intended to bargain for anything and we've got not much to lose?"

Heaven must be playing a huge cosmic joke on you because right that moment, outside the window, you hear a voice magnified via a megaphone shouting up at you. "We know you're still in there and that you have hostages at hand. We don't want any blood being spilt, here. You boys just cool it and come down with your hands up, release everyone, and we won't even consider life imprisonment."

"Whoever taught you to negotiate, I'd like to shove a bullet down their throat," you scream out of the window. "cool it, indeed! Jesus! What even took you so long? Anyway," you continue in a considerably lower and calmer tone of voice, looking away. "I was getting to this point. We don't need those hostages. Even if we let them go, they might not survive. This means they don't even need the 'alive' factor in them, right?"

"You aren't going to kill everyone, Schneider," Till responds quietly. "we've done what we've done. There's no need to add on any more. It was always the cameras that we were after, not those people."

"Fuck yourself. I'm angry. This is the final nail in the metaphorical coffin. Because of them prying into my life at every possible point I've never managed to marry anyone and my family has to live in near hiding. This isn't revenge when they'll just move onto other targets! I'm angry and _I want to take down everyone with me_. Everyone in the damn room would make a good start, that's what I'm saying!"

There is silence for a while, and then Richard rests his plastic hand on your shoulder. "Calm down, Doom. Calm down. Take deep breaths. It's okay. I know. I understand."

You spin around to face them. "I'm a German cyclops with a mohawk and a gun, Kruspe. You don't know a fucking thing about me."

"What's wrong with mohawks," Till says in a smooth, rumbling tone of voice that calms you back down again. You sigh and rub your forehead, and in an act of defeat that surprises everyone (including yourself), you lower your G36 assault rifle and toss the cartridges away, dropping the useless gun at your foot.

"I'm tired," you moan out softly. When the bomb goes off, your adrenaline levels will spike and you'll temporarily feel awake and alive again, but apart from that, you're getting the first taster of the hollow emptiness of an unfulfilled vendetta. At least you see it coming afterwards. "I'm tired. I'm so tired."

Paul nods, and for a moment he looks completely and utterly calm and stoic. "Yes. I know. We're going to throw away our guns now and we're going to walk out together and maybe it'll hurt a little, but I promise we can sleep all the live long day afterwards."

"Serious?"

Till answers for him this time. "It is the most serious thing, Christoph. The _Most. Serious. Thing_."

Till doesn't mince around words in serious situations like those, which is a trait that you much admire. Till _knows_ you, man, you two even have the same hairstyle. Paul can be nice but half the time he's laughing at shit and Richard pretends that he doesn't know a damn thing and Olli just wants to be killed. You might complain about Flake as well, but seeing he's most definitely not going to make it out alive, you hold off on the complaint. What's that? Do I hear you complaining about dead people and how much of a dick they actually were in real life? You insensitive bastard. You almost hope that you and Till will share the same cell in the aftermath so he can guide you around. But at the same time the chances of that are pretty much nil. The man doesn't notice you that much anyway. You sigh and rub the eye that you can't see out of. Time to leave all this behind and face the cameras once more.

"I don't like it either, Doom," Richard comments from the blind side of your face as if he's read your mind, and all you can do is nod without a smile. "let's do the bastard. Come on."

So you put down all your guns in a heap on the floor, untie the terrified bank tellers and guards and then tell them to run, run far away. None of them hesitate, although you know that some of them are probably goners anyway because they're taking the long way around in their haste to put as much distance between you and them as possible. Among the ones that are let go is the dark-haired lady that Paul dragged in as a hostage. Pity. She looked like a pretty one. You hope she makes it out alive and that she'll forget about all this over a pedicure or something. With that in mind you slowly walk out of the bank, keeping to Till's pace so that you are all together, passing Flake's motionless form as you emerge into the foyer, pushing the glass doors open. Paul's still giggling, although in a much, much quieter volume than before. It's still annoying, though.

"Will you shut up already, Landers, do we really need to listen to you laughing like a bitch even as we walk towa-"

\-----

** Christian Lorenz **

[REDACTED]

\-----

** The Ballad of Love's Trajectory **

I was born in Germany in 1987, created in a factory along with hundreds of other cases of my brothers in war. I consisted of a lead bullet encased in a steel shell filled with gunpowder; this is still true though I had no name when I was first created. Our kind is called a 9 x 19 mm Parabellum after the Latin motto of our original creators: _Si vis pacem para bellum_. If you seek peace prepare for war. It isn't much of a name, but you take what you can get. There was a flash of light as I left the factory lines, lovely beautiful light, although it vanished when I was boxed and shipped off into the great unknown.

There, in that cosy box, I would lie dormant and asleep until I was fourteen years old and the turn of the new millennium came. This is the background of my story.

One morning the box is opened and I am picked up and loaded into a tight space that I instinctively recognize as the chamber of a Walther P99. All my knowledge is inherited from the machine, stamped into my body, engraved on me until I am destroyed. It is before sunrise so there isn't much to see, but nevertheless I register a half-warmth that I felt, years ago, when hands touched me the first time. In my adolescent shyness, the return of such warmth is sudden and unexpected but nevertheless very much welcome. When I slide in, however, his grip is cold and unfeeling - he has one plastic hand, one that does not feel. I am a little disappointed, but the fit of the chamber against my body is tight and perfect. I shall not disappoint my new master. I want him to be pleased with my work.

"Your name is Love," he says in a hoarse, raspy voice that sounds like it's had a lifetime of cigarettes forced through it. He then chuckles a little; I am thrilled, though. I've never had a name like this before. "the most beautiful of our numerous vices, and one that belongs to me and perhaps Dietrich. Love is what you shall represent. But I shall forget this by the time we are there, though."

I am the first to be loaded. Five more of my brothers follow. Revenge. Hatred. Understanding. Death. Freedom. My master explains the story behind each name, punctuated with more names - more human names - that I do not really understand. He then laughs harshly and cocks the gun, spinning the barrel carelessly. "I do not know if any of you will ever be fired. Let us hope not."

But I know that I am destined not to wait for more years in this gun. I am fourteen years old and eager to fulfill my purpose, please my master. Soon the gun is slipped into a coat pocket and I am carried somewhere until my master's hand closes around it again. From the sounds outside, I know that we are no longer where we originally were - we're now in a busy place somewhere. Full of people. He spins the barrel again, shifting my entire world, and to my delight, I click to the ejecting position. People play Russian Roulette for the dangerous thrill of it all the time but surely it doesn't compare to seeing it from a bullet's point of view, clicking into position and seeing the target for the first time. I see light outside, inviting me to explore its depths; there is so much to see from here. I fall in love with the majesty of the sun. The only thing I miss is that my master is now carrying me in his fake unfeeling hand and I cannot feel his warmth. But that's not his fault. He is only human. It's fair that he wants to distance himself from the things that he will do with this gun. I am none to dispute that.

And I don't dispute it at all when the trigger is pulled and the hammer kicks in. The gunpowder detonates and I am ejected from the barrel, experiencing flight for the first and last time; I hear my master shout something behind me, and see a young man with his frightened expression reflecting onto my body for less than half a second before I impact his sternum. Parabellums are lethal up to 50m depth and more, which is more than enough depth for me to find and bury myself deep in his red pulsing heart. A jolt and a crash shakes my world, dissipating my already-weak momentum as he crashes to the floor; somewhere behind me I hear a woman screaming and imagine that my master has disposed of a rival. I wonder if she loved this man. I wonder if she rightfully belongs to my master now, being held with the hand that is attached to his body and radiates human warmth. No matter. I did not spare my target. I am proud.

Even though he does not remember that he named me Love, and likely doesn't know which ones he named which, I am proof that it triumphs over all. I capture this young man's heart in my cold embrace, his warmth soaking into the casing surrounding me. I know that through me, my master has seized both the young man and the young woman's hearts as well. A job well done.

I have fulfilled my purpose. Love indeed conquers all. I can die happily now.

\-----

** Doktor Christian "Flake" Lorenz, Age 35, Keyboardist of Rammstein (a.k.a. Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Fanfic) **

I so am. What the hell are you even talking about.

So I've been sitting here for what seems like years, but a quick glance at the timer tells me that I've still got ten minutes left on the clock. My God is a snuff director. I just hope I'm unconscious before I feel any of this. I probably will be.

 _What do you want most in the world, Flake?_ Paul asked me back then. _Everyone wants something. We all want something._

It's strange how I'm sitting in the foyer, have been for more an hour now, and no one's actually come to drag me away. Strange, but I can't say that I'm surprised, because the closest things are usually the things that you're most blind to. I wouldn't be surprised if people thought I was just a bank clerk who passed out, or a statue, or whatever. Either way, the plan has been undisrupted for most part and I'm still here holding the detonator and briefcase. I also have a gun in my jacket for self-defense, although I didn't tell anyone this. Will there be anyone coming back for me?

Till will come back, I think so to myself. I don't really want him to, at least not alone, but I have a feeling that he will. Ideally, he and the others will just walk past me without fanfare or even a goodbye, leave the building, and I'll explode to become part of the universe. But I have another undesirable scenario playing out in my head: Till will come back and he'll talk to me, maybe about how he appreciates my sacrifice or doesn't, maybe he'll try to untangle me from this bomb and call it quits. He was the only one who paused to look, really look at me with sadness in his eyes when everyone entered the building. It was disturbing. But I have a solution to that, as crude as it might be. He will come back with whatever else he'll have in store and I'm going to smile back at him the way I always have and then I'm going to shoot him in the face. I'd be doing him and his bad leg a favor.

I've been lucky, actually. I knew what I was in for. My house will get searched when I die. On the kitchen table will be a stack of papers that consist my will. See, right now every member of the band is under the impression that I hold no grudges and that I gave my full permission to be blown up, And they're right, I'm quite happy to die and I hold no grudges. But the public doesn't. After they read my will, no one will believe their testament that this was done with my consent - I'll be a poor victim, someone forced to act as a suicide bomber. They'll be in jail for a very, very long time to put it mildly, cursing my name for all of it. But that's fine. I intend it to be that way. It's for their own good; they wanted escape, and escape they will to prison where no one will touch them.

It's all right if you hate me. I forgive you. You know not what you do.

The guys walk out and I give them a long look. Not one of them meets my eyes, which is good. I close my eyes and hold the detonator tight in my hand, silent and contemplative as I watch them open the glass doors and out into freedom. I take in their forms for the last time. Paul wanting to be noticed, Doom loving the thought of revenge, Olli loving the allure of death, Richard wanting women, drugs and loving Till, Till loving Richard, Till wanting understanding, the media loving and hating Till and all of us, all of us wanting to escape. All of us _thinking_ that we'll escape. Too bad that only one of us will get it. Really, I do feel bad. It seems to be not a honor that we can share, breaking this cycle. And I won the jackpot because I could see beyond all of this in the first place. I'd feel worse that none of them could join me if this didn't feel so liberating.

_What do you want most in the world, Flake?_

"I want..." I whisper as the guards burst in, and smile. Broke the vow of silence. Oh well.

Go to hell, media. You undeserving pack of whores. Screw you too, Lindemann and the four other German guys. There are no banks to rob and no statements to make in prison. I'm out of here.

I'm going to live forever. I want martyrdom.

This was my gift to all of you; a world of a solipsist. I will take it back now. If there is no one but you left in a world, you rule it.

There is a bright light after that - and then I touch the face of God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within the Ich Will video, nearly all of the band members have a sort of defect. Richard has a plastic hand, Till has a leg brace and a clubbed foot, Schneider is blind in one eye. But as for the other three, I never could figure it out - I think Paul's is something to do with his eyes but never could really check. I like the 'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil' theme though, so I worked that in. The Ballad of Love's Trajectory was the first to be written because I kind of liked the idea. Not even stray bullets escape my horrible mind. This one derives heavily from the events in the video, even more so than the other one did: Schneider's want is Anger/Revenge purely because he just looks so irrationally pissed off throughout most of the video. I always read Flake's suicide bombing in the video as a way of Uebermensching himself, and given what it says in the Making of Ich Will, I don't think I am too far off the mark either.
> 
> Paul's monologue was the hardest to write because of the lack of quote marks. I don't doubt that it is also ridiculously hard to read as well. In my essay-fueled slightly depressed state I took Rammstein and pretty much threw muck on them with this fic. Too late though because this is now my headcanon. All of this Ich Will clusterfuck started because I was bored and wrote something about Richard dropping a woman like she's hot. My own mind scares me. Please tear me a new asshole if you hated.


End file.
